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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28301400">the only gift he shall ever desire</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/elmshore/pseuds/elmshore'>elmshore</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Christmas Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 14:23:12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,706</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28301400</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/elmshore/pseuds/elmshore</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Nate has always enjoyed Christmas, but this year, he might have found an entirely new reason to be joyous.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Female Detective/Nathaniel "Nate" Sewell</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>the only gift he shall ever desire</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/firebreathing_bitchqueen/gifts">firebreathing_bitchqueen</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is a gift for the wonderful Katie, who has been nothing short of amazing during this year that we have gotten to know one another! Your kindness and support have helped me through some dark times, and I always enjoy seeing the wonderful stories you weave! I hope I did Holland and Nate justice, and I wish you both a happy holiday and a fantastic 2021!!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He is finding that apartment buildings are not nearly as Christmas-tree accessible as one might assume them to be.</p><p>The stairwell is narrow — indeed, the interior of the building is overall too small, all cramped walls and tight corridors — while the tree currently nestled in his arms is… decidedly <em>not</em>, indeed it is far too cumbersome for its own good. </p><p>Nate maintains, at least privately, that out of all the trees available for purchase, Holland somehow managed to pick the largest.</p><p>No more than five minutes were they at the little makeshift farm, located just on the outskirts of Wayhaven and tucked quietly off the side of the road before she spotted the massive grand noble fir. They had scarcely been out of the car before she was gone, a blur darting through green needles and dark wood and leaving him no choice but to follow. </p><p>(And he shall follow her anywhere, he knows — through any manner of obstacle or hardship, will use her as a beacon to guide his path.)</p><p><em> I’m an excellent judge of character, especially when it comes to trees</em>, had been her joking reply as he finally caught up to her, not out of breath but no less confused, and she no doubt saw the look of thinly-veiled horror on his face. </p><p>The smile that lit up her face could have rivaled the sun in its brilliance, and who is he, to deny the sun?</p><p>It had been quite the ordeal, securing the massive fir to the roof of her car, but in the end, they managed it together — as they so often do, the two of them — and after an excruciatingly tense drive back, here they are, undertaking yet another trial: getting the damned thing up these stairs and into her apartment.</p><p>A task that is, it seems, easier said than done.</p><p>Seldom is Nate grateful for many of his vampiric abilities — he enjoys the helping, the way he is able to soothe those hurting, but the rest... — and yet in times like these, he finds they are useful, in their own way. The tree weighs little in his hold, and so the issue of the climb is more in the details, than the larger picture.</p><p>Coarse, flat needles prick at any flesh he dared leave exposed, pale crisscrossing marks trailing along his tawny skin, healing instantly only to reappear, an endless cycle. They itch fiercely, and it is all he can do, to keep a hold of the tree and resist the urge to scratch, to find a sort of relief. It is, at least, a welcome distraction from the awkwardness of the angle at which he must carry the blasted thing — walking upstairs partially sideways is, he is learning, not <em>nearly </em>as fun as Farah once claimed it to be.</p><p>Though, to be fair, she had been entirely treeless at the time.</p><p>“You doing okay?”</p><p>Her voice catches his attention and the siren song of it pulls him out of his thoughts until he is back in reality; back in this too-small hallway, with this too-large fir held in his grasp. Nate dares a glance up, over a wide expanse of green and drowns in a sea of verdant, twinkling in the dim fluorescent lights. He is lost in their tides, pulled under the waves and it is, he thinks, quite handy that he has no need to breathe — otherwise, she might steal the air from his lungs and bring his heart to a standstill.</p><p>Holland may well yet be the death of him, and oh, what a sweet death it shall be.</p><p>“Hope the tree isn’t <em> too </em> heavy for you,” she continues, and he watches as she twists, pretending to look as if she is helping him carry the object, “I think it’s pretty light, all things considered.”</p><p>“Well, I fear we cannot all possess the same strength as you, love,” Nate teases, and when she laughs, the sound is silk flowing across his flesh, settles deep inside of him, and makes itself at home. “Perhaps you should run ahead and open the door? I think I can manage the rest of the way.”</p><p>She hums and after a quick look, to make sure they are indeed alone in this tiny environment she calls home, scurries ahead. Makes it to the landing in seconds and vanishes around the corner, hair bouncing, pale locks glinting. Nate continues his solitary trek and hears, clearly, the sound of a latch being unlocked. Then a door, swinging open, and as he reaches the top, rounds the corner, and there she is, waiting for him, a smile playing on her lips.</p><p>Here, on even ground, the task is easier. Nate is careful to mind both the tree and his head as he ducks low, maneuvering both it and himself past her doorway. Behind him, Holland directs him to a spot beside the window, which appears to have already been cleared and made ready. </p><p>With great care, he places the tree in the metal holder — Holland is there immediately to assist, holding it steady in the middle as he secures it below — and once it is done, he takes a wide step back, examining the fruits of their labor as she comes to rest beside him.</p><p>Immediately, he is overcome by the smell — pine forest and sap and fresh snow, soaking into the broad needles. The aroma of it fills the space around them, clings to every inch of the apartment, and yet, strangely, even amidst the heady perfume, her scent still reigns supreme. A delightful mixture of sweetness and spice — delicate rosewater and rich bourbon, a cloying hint of cardamom, each one uniquely <em> Holland </em> — which curls around him, alluring tendrils beckoning him ever closer until he is helpless against their pull.</p><p>He is drawn to her, a moth to her flame.</p><p>A finger brushes against the back of his hand. Traces a winding path across his knuckles, one by one, and then down, hooking around his pinky. Her touch is a comfort, a balm that soothes all aches, and Nate does not attempt to stop the smile which spreads over his lips. Looks down at her, instead, and finds her staring up at him, those green eyes — invitingly deep, a wildwood he might lose himself in — piercing through to the core of him.</p><p>“See? I told you it would fit,” and there is a hint of something downright <em>mischievous </em>in her eyes that has him clearing his throat, heat rising in his cheeks that he masks by turning his attention back to the tree. </p><p>Nate chuckles, pulse rushing in his ears. Takes her hand into his own, laces their fingers, and when she squeezes, his heart swells. “Yes, correct as ever, dearheart.”</p><p>“Sweet-talker,” she snorts, but he does not fail to miss the way her own pulse spikes at the endearment. Before he can draw attention to it, however, she pivots, and tugs him along with her, the room briefly spinning. “Now comes the fun part: decorating!”</p><p>Her free arm sweeps out in a grand gesture and quickly, his eyes are drawn to the myriad of cardboard boxes scattered throughout the room, each one taking up valuable floor space. They vary in sizes, big and small and in-between, and all have familiar handwriting on the sides; black, chunky letters indicating what resides in which box.</p><p>Some words have been crossed out and then replaced, scrawled through with thick lines.</p><p>Holland detaches herself from his side and glides over to a short, precariously perched stack near the couch. Pats the top of it, nails tapping a beat, and tosses him a wink. “These, Agent Sewell, are for you.”</p><p>A quick glance at the words scribbled along the side tells him the task to which he has been assigned: lighting.</p><p>“Very well, and what task shall you be tackling love?”</p><p>Another wink, this one accompanied by a dazzling smile. “I’m on ornaments, naturally!” There is a surety in her tone that Nate recognizes, knows not to argue with — not that he ever would, of course.</p><p>With a sigh that is only for show — his smile gives him away, he knows — Nate makes his way over to the couch and takes a seat. Grabs the top box from the stack and pulls it into his lap, carefully tearing away the tape sealing it shut, and pulling open the flaps. Inside, a bundle of cords and tiny, multicolored bulbs greet him, tangled and interwoven as if they were vines overgrown in a long-abandoned garden.</p><p>Meanwhile, Holland plops herself on the floor beside his legs and, using them as a resting point, tugs over a box of her own; this one comes from another stack, closer to the coffee table, and Nate can hear the ornaments moving around inside, <em> clacking </em>and <em>clanging </em>against one another. She plucks a pair of scissors off the table and cuts along the tape, prying it open. Returns the scissors to their resting place and dives in, hands rummaging through the baubles.</p><p>A comfortable silence settles over them as they begin their tasks, broken only by the sound of her quiet breathing and what his own keen hearing is able to pick up — traffic and passerby's below, a dog barking four doors down, the soft hum of her refrigerator. </p><p>It is peaceful, in an odd way; a slice of normalcy, a break from the constant threat of Trappers and Rogues and other dangers that go bump in the night.</p><p>Carefully, Nate extracts the massive skein of lights and begins to work it loose, fingers threading along the cords slowly, prying the knots undone. And he could allow the silence to continue, but there is a thought nagging him — it circles the outskirts of his mind, a beast prowling for answers — and so he takes a chance. “I must confess,” he begins, weighs each word before he arranges them neatly, “I thought you were not fond of Christmas.”</p><p>Holland twists to look up at him, a pale brow arched. “What do you mean?”</p><p>“I overheard you the other day, speaking with Felix, and you sounded,” another pause, another careful examination of his wording, “less than enthusiastic, about the upcoming festivities. I don’t mean to pry,” he adds hastily, but she only laughs.</p><p>“No, no, it’s fine,” she shrugs, attention returning to the pack now resting between her spread legs, “I wouldn’t say I dislike Christmas by itself, but I do have a… let’s call it, <em> tense </em> relationship with the holiday.”</p><p>“May I ask why?”</p><p>She hums, fingers rising swiftly to tuck a lock of blonde hair behind her ear. “I suppose I take issue with the forced nature of it? Everyone acts cheerful, but it all feels like a farce or some sort of obligation? A conscripted sort of merriment, where you just smile and mouth the words, but the meaning has long been lost.”</p><p>There is a moment of quiet until she speaks again, an edge to her tone now. “People are so wrapped up,” a brief chuckle at her own unintentional pun, before she continues, “in buying this or that, trying to outdo one another, it’s just so… commercialized.”</p><p>As she speaks, she remains in motion, drawing ornament after ornament from the box. Examines each one with a sharp look — turns it this way and that, leaves no angle unseen — and then divides them into two piles; one on the floor, close to the box, and the other atop the table. Nate is unsure which pile indicates what, but decides it is best not to ask.</p><p>He should, instead, focus on the jumble of lights in his hands that is, slowly but surely, unraveling.</p><p>“And it’s just,” she states, continues where she left off, tongue clicking, “before Halloween is even over, and before you see a <em> hint </em> of Thanksgiving, here comes Christmas! There’s no time to breathe or even acknowledge any other holiday, you wake up one morning and suddenly you’ve got holly shoved down your throat.” Her words fade into a grumble and he watches, from the corner of his eye, as she tosses what looks like an ornament shaped like a pickle into the floor pile.</p><p>Stares at it a moment longer than necessary, at the misshapen eyes and unseemly cowboy hat, and then tears his gaze away, returning to Holland. Offers a smile, though she has her back to him and is laser-focused on her job.</p><p>“The holiday certainly has evolved over the centuries, and not entirely to my liking,” Nate agrees, a sigh following as nostalgia creeps in. “Every year, it seems there is a heavier emphasis on the material and far less importance placed on the joy of being together with loved ones. This is a time to be spent among friends and family, not—” he cuts himself short, realizes too late his mistake, but the words are there now and there is no retrieving them.</p><p>Family is a touchy subject between them, one he is better off leaving to rest. Nate laments the poor relationship between Holland and her mother but, he also understands that both women have a journey ahead of them if they ever wish to bridge the gap between them.</p><p>But it is not a journey meant for him, and difficult as it is to watch, Nate has no intention of prying or prodding. Not anymore, at least.</p><p>An apology composes itself in the back of his throat. Rises, up and up and up, but dies on the tip of his tongue when Holland only chuckles, the sound strained but not angry. She twists back to look up at him, lips turned upward in a wary smile, and her hand rests against his leg, fingers curling, searing even through the fabric of his pants. </p><p>“Don’t worry about it, no harm done,” she shrugs and he knows, deep in his chest, that it is not entirely true. “Rebecca may not have been around much, but I had an excellent nanny! I’ve got some lovely Christmas memories kicking around, I just don’t have the same nostalgia for the holiday that others do, I suppose.” </p><p>He nods and there is so much he might say, sentiments building in his mind only to collapse and start anew, but then she is turning away and the moment is lost.</p><p>Quiet drapes itself over them once more, settling into the nooks and crannies between them, and after a time, Nate can worry only about the mess in his hands. Only, it is less of a mess now — it is loose, free of knots, and he sets it over the back of the couch, spreads it carefully. Has no desire to see his hard work lost so quickly, after all.</p><p>Below, Holland finishes one box and he learns, finally, what the pile on the floor represents: rejection.</p><p>She gathers the ornaments by the handful and shoves them back into the package, then slides it away, nudges it further with her foot. Pulls another over, scissors cutting away thick tape, and the process repeats.</p><p>As he retrieves a second ball from his own box, this one mercifully less tangled than the last, he gives her a slight nudge with his knee. “I see the pickle did not make the cut,” he teases, having caught a flash of green being tossed back into the box.</p><p>“Hm? Oh, that thing!” Holland laughs, an airy thing, easy, and the tension coiling in his chest relaxes. “Tina bought it for me as a gag gift, a couple of years back. It’s so ugly, but I can’t get rid of it.”</p><p>Somehow, the notion that Officer Poname is the one who purchased such a thing makes perfect sense to him — it seems to be suited to her more… offbeat tastes.</p><p>Nate begins threading his fingers between the thick wires, unknots as he goes, and the process is quicker this time — or, perhaps, he is simply more experienced now? He is willing to accept either option, it hardly matters. Soon enough, the cords are spilling down, over his lap, and to the floor. Multi-colored bulbs glint and twinkle, catching the light from overhead, and he smiles, allows himself a moment of pride.</p><p>Figuring these ought to be enough for the tree, he reaches down and gives Holland a light tap on the shoulder. “Mind if I begin stringing these up?”</p><p>“Knock yourself out!” </p><p>A thumbs up follows the words and he laughs. Swoops down to plant a kiss atop her head, soft strands tickling his nose, and then stands, doing his absolute best not to jostle her. Lights securely in hand, Nate makes his way from the couch back to the tree and steps around it, attempting to work out the best angle. Slots himself between the fir and the window, the chill from the glass pricking up his spine, and decides it best to start here.</p><p>He begins, as one should, at the top of the tree.</p><p>Weaves the strands through the branches, motions slow, precise. Moves in triangular sections — places a few near the tips of the branches, while others are nestled deeper, to give a fuller look — and Nate finds it easy, shockingly so, to get lost in the simplicity of this. </p><p>It requires focus, yes, but it allows the mind to wander, and as he works, tugging each wire into its proper place, a memory resurfaces. Rises to the forefront and Nate smiles, a chuckle tumbling from his lips unbidden. </p><p>How long has it been, since he last thought of this moment?</p><p>“What’s so funny over there? I hope the tree isn’t telling you all of it’s best jokes,” Holland calls, having shifted so that her back can rest against the couch, legs bent up at the knee. Her pile of ornaments — both rejected and accepted — has grown exponentially, in a short time.</p><p>“No, I assure you that all of the best jokes will be saved for you,” he says, chews on his bottom lip, and adds, “I was remembering the first real Christmas, I spent with Adam.”</p><p>She snorts. “Oh? I’ll bet that was fun.” A joke meant to be lighthearted, but he recognizes it for the subtle invitation it is and decides there is no harm in indulging her with the memory, though he has never told anyone else of it.</p><p>Which makes beginning it rather difficult, emotions, and words at war for a moment. Finally, he wrangles them into something coherent. “It took me a long time to adjust to my turning. The life I knew was gone, buried at sea, and I had to learn everything anew, it seemed. Adam was… pivotal, in keeping me sane. He was a rock, in a sense, my tether keeping me afloat. I know he has never said so, at least not that I am aware, but I must have been quite a burden to him.”</p><p>“I don’t think he would ever consider you a burden, Nate,” and her tone is soft, tender in a way that makes him ache. “He loves you, as you love him, and that isn’t a burden.”</p><p>“A kind sentiment, but I will admit to having tried his patience,” he laughs, running a hand through his hair, tawny fingers catching on brown locks, “I was so desperate for <em>anything </em>that might make me feel human again, I got into quite a bit of trouble, but he was always there to get me out of trouble,” and he recalls the way Adam would sigh, heavy, resigned, but the frustration in his tone never reached his eyes.</p><p>No, his eyes were always kind. Patient. Far more so than he deserved, Nate knows this for sure.</p><p><em> How strange, that I am continuously soothed by green eyes</em>.</p><p>“Nate?”</p><p>Her voice is a jolt, brings him skidding back to reality, and he blinks. Chases away the haze curling along the edges of his mind and clears his throat, rolling a small red bulb between his fingers.</p><p>“Apologies. The point of my rambling is, one holiday season, while we were in Italy, I returned home to find that Adam had set up a tree for me. It was far too large for the tiny cottage we called our own — the poor thing had to be bent over at the top, just to fit — and yet, for the lack of decoration and ceremony, seeing it made me happier than I had been in years. For the first time since I awoke as a vampire, I felt… human, again. Something as simple as spending the holiday with someone I cared for, it was enough to reignite that spark inside of me.”</p><p>She is quiet for a time, and when she speaks, her tone is soft, affectionate. “Somehow, that sounds exactly like something our Commanding Agent would do.”</p><p>“Yes, for all his faults, Adam possesses a kinder soul than many give him credit for.” </p><p><em> A shame</em>, Nate thinks, <em> that so few people are allowed to witness it</em>.</p><p>“I’ve always guessed that under his brick wall exterior,” Holland says, pushing herself up and to her feet, “lies a heart of pure gold.” She steps over the pile formerly resting beside her and bends down, grabbing a handful of baubles off the table. Makes her way toward the tree and settles on the opposite side, peering around the branches at him. “So, I have to know: does Adam believe in Santa Claus?”</p><p>His laughter is loud, echoes off the walls around them, and Nate feels his lips break into a grin so wide, it almost hurts his cheeks. “No, I’m afraid to say that he is not a believer. Though, Mason <em> did </em> have Felix convinced of his existence for a week.”</p><p>“Yeah, that really doesn’t surprise me at all. Oh! You know, we should get Felix an <em> Elf on the Shelf</em>, I bet—”</p><p>“Absolutely not.”</p><p>She huffs, blowing a few of the needles, and sticks out her tongue. “Spoilsport.”</p><p>Nate opts <em>not </em>to argue with the assessment and simply continues his task. Works his way lower on the tree, careful to keep the strands evenly spaced, and together, they fall into a rhythm, as they always do.</p><p>They move counter to one another — he goes left, she goes right — and yet, along the way, they find themselves meeting. A brush of fingers here, a bumping of elbows there, and when he feels brave enough, when they are close enough, Nate steals a kiss; a peck against her cheek, or a quick touching of lips. </p><p>And each time, she laughs. High and clear, the sun breaking through the clouds. It is sonorous, a rapturous melody. Sets flowers blooming in his heart, petals scattering through his chest as vines weave their way into his veins.</p><p>She is a renewal, a fresh lease on this life, and that is, he thinks, a miracle far more wondrous than any holiday can ever hope to provide.</p><p>Nate cannot be sure how long they work — time seems to pass differently when Holland is at his side, he becomes caught in her orbit and there is no keeping up with the hours, no need to — only that eventually, he hears her let out a cry of joy. She steps away from the tree, grinning radiantly, and beckons him over with a wave.</p><p>“Come look, I think we’re done!” </p><p>He lingers only long enough to tuck in a final strand, lines it up with the rest, and then he is moving. Settles into place at her side, their arms nearly touching, and oh, now he is grinning right along with her, at the sight of their handiwork.</p><p>The tree is a glittering marvel. Colors of all variety lie nestled among broad, green needles and reflect off the myriad of baubles — all shapes and sizes — now dangling from the branches. It sparkles, twinkling, and already, the mood of the room is shifted; a new sense of light and wonder permeates through the space, cozy and heartfelt.</p><p>It is something they have created together, and that is perhaps the most beautiful part.</p><p>“Oh!” She claps and turns to look up at him, eyes wide. “The star! Mind grabbing it? It’s in the box I left open by the table, big and gold, you won’t miss it!”</p><p>He nods, offering a murmur of agreement, and turns, heading for the box in question. Peers inside, and as stated, has little issue locating the object in question. A large capiz star rests inside, the clear surface reflecting light, and inside, he can see strands of white-gold lights strewn along through it. </p><p>But it is the item <em>beside </em>the star, tucked just under the left point, that catches his attention. A sprig of green, littered with red berries and tied by a white string, calls to him. </p><p>And he answers, happily.</p><p>Sweeps both into his grasp — slides the bit of greenery up his sleeve, out of sight — and returns to Holland with a spring in his step. Holds it out for her, but she only shakes her head, giving him a wink.</p><p>“You do the honors,” she tells him, and then adds with a laugh, “after all, between the two of us, you’re the only one tall enough to reach without a step stool.”</p><p>“I could always lift you if you would prefer?”</p><p>She rolls her eyes and points toward the tree, giving him her best glare. “Just put the star on top of the tree, giant man.”</p><p>Nate offers a brief bow, as he turns away. “Of course, Detective Townsend, happy to be of assistance,” and her groan is loud but full of mirth. He is tall, but even he has to stretch to reach the top and it takes a bit of maneuvering, to keep the star both level and in place. It teeters and he loiters in place, ready to catch it should it fall, but mercifully it stays.</p><p>He steps around the tree and quickly plugs in the cord, watching as the star lights up, glowing brightly.</p><p>When he returns to Holland’s side, she raises a hand and it takes him a moment before he recognizes the gesture. Returns it, slapping his palm against her own, and he wishes he could bottle the joy radiating from her at this moment, keep it with him forever so that he might never again know that it feels to be without her.</p><p>“Well? I think we did a damn good job, don’t you?”</p><p>“Yes, I would say we did an excellent job,” Nate agrees, and smooth as he can, pulls the mistletoe from his sleeve, holding it above her head. “I also happened to find this, conveniently.”</p><p>Holland peers up and when her eyes land on the object, he is delighted to see a flush of scarlet flood into her cheeks. Her gaze flicks to his own, and Nate allows a smile to dance across his lips, leaning closer. “It is tradition, you know.”</p><p>Her hands reach for him, nimble fingers curling into the collar of his jacket, and when she tugs, he offers no resistance. “Just kiss me,” she whispers, and who is he, to deny such a request?</p><p>The kiss is slow, a gentle teasing, and yet it stokes a flame within him, sets him ablaze until he is engulfed in her fire. Her lips part and Nate wastes no time — melts into her with ease, drowns in the taste of her. Slicks his tongue over her own and when she moans, he swallows the sound; lets it burrow deep inside his chest, where it makes itself a home. </p><p>Nate curls his free hand around her hip and draws her closer, until she is flush against him, bodies slotting together as if they were missing pieces of the same puzzle; meant to be, a perfect fit.</p><p>Arms coil around his neck, fingers toying with loose strands of his hair, and Nate has the sudden realization that he could stay like this forever — here, just the two of them. A fantasy, he knows, but at least for a moment, he allows himself to indulge in it.</p><p>He feels alive, human, <em> loved</em>.</p><p>And all of it is the doing of the woman cradled in his arms, the only gift he truly needs.</p>
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